Mascarpone

I went to the shop. It was closed. So, I kicked the closed door that was supposed to open at my mere presence. It didn’t budge. I need mascarpone. Doesn’t’ the world realise that I need mascarpone. I have specific instructions from my wife not to come home without

mascarpone. And now the world is putting up barriers in my quest to retrieve the fabled Lombardy whipped cheese.

What kind of a hick town shuts its doors to mascarpone hunters at 10:35 pm? Hicksville. That’s where I live. A backwater in the soft dairy universe. What even is mascarpone anyway?

It’s not cream cheese. It’s not sour cream. It’s not soft ricotta. It’s some obscure Italian variant which apparently is irreplaceable in all known dimensions.

“Tiramisu, “she said. “It needs mascarpone!”

She’d barely looked up from the cookbook when she said it. Didn’t ask how my day was. Not interested. She wanted mascarpone and I was just the one sent to get it.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you some of my tiramisu. Sending me out in the freezing night. Tiramisu, tiramisu, buckle my shoe, do a big pooh! I know it’s juvenile, but FARRK. I need mascarpone!

I took one last pleading look at the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door, gave it another kick, turned and marched to my little Mazda, a plan forming in my mind.

A hero’s journey is never easy. What is a hero if they don’t overcome challenges? Nothing, nada, zilch.

With new resolve I entered my car, turned it on, slammed it into reverse and sped away. The plan was simple: go to the nearest, fanciest neighbourhood and plunder the boutique grocer’s supply of the ‘white gold’, and bolt home triumphant. Trouble was, the nearest fancy suburb

was across town, which meant I had to pass through the down trodden and dangerous, South Bank district. Normally you don’t go there after dark unless your skin colour allows you to blend into the shadows and your car is a ‘set of wheels’.

But this is no ordinary errand. This not even about mascarpone anymore. This is about love, and the purest expression of my love will be when I deliver the Tricolour tub of dairy fat with a silky texture to my eagerly awaiting wife.

South Bank at night smells of bin juice and broken dreams. I hit three potholes at the first corner and nearly ran over a rabid possum with more street smarts than I’ll ever have. My Mazda barked in protest as if to say, “Mate, really? You’re going there….for mascarpone?”

Yes my meek Mazda friend, I AM going there, and I don’t care if your ‘service’ light has been on since 2023.

I popped the car into ‘sports mode’ - you know, to get the revs up in case urgent manoeuvres were required - and began to scan the edges of the road, Terminator-style, looking for predators, both human and animal.

Then: headlights. HORN. Truck!

A wall of metal careens toward me and I floor it. My car lets out a kamakazi-like scream of 8,000 RPMs and catapults me through the intersection.

“ASSHOLLLLEEEE!” the truck driver yells.

Meaningless. I am a man on a mission.

Minutes later, I flick sports-mode off and glide into Elwood Green where dogs wear tartan vests and sourdough is $16. It 10:52 when I spy Elwood Green’s boutique grocer shining like a beacon promising organic abundance and overpriced tomatoes. I screech into a questionable

parking spot and sprint toward the glass doors.

Open.

I feel a surge of adrenaline penetrate my nut sack. I can do this.

But fate is a cruel beast. A portly man, enters ahead of me and positions himself perfectly between the orange juicer and the gourmet chocolate display, blocking my path. God, slow-walking pedestrians who don’t keep left, annoy me. The arrogance!

My phone dings. It’s from my wife.

“WHERE ARE YOU???!!!!!”

I stop. The five exclamation points are a nice touch. Helpful. Is she worried about my safety, or is she just impatient for her ingredient? I suspect the latter. I consider a ‘rage reply’ but by the time I look up, the portly man has rounded the corner. I race after him, just in time to see

his pudgy fingers grasp a single 250g tub of mascarpone.

”Hey!” I shout.

He startles. Drops it. It cracks on the floor.

“What?” he says, wide-eyed.

“Is that Mascarpone?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. I just….I need some. My wife’s making tiramisu.”

“My doctor said I can have some. Occasionally.”

I manage a smile, but he backs away toward the cured meats.

I crouch beside the fallen tub and peer into the shelf where tubs of mascarpone should be.

Horror.

“No,” I quietly say. “No.” Shaking my head.

I look down at the smashed tub. Maybe I could salvage it…scoop it up? A bit of floor grit never hurt anyone. Contrast. That’s important in desserts, isn’t it? And why did she text me at just that moment! Typical. And I had a clear passing opportunity. I was in chubby-boy’s slip stream, I could have taken him around the corner!

I just sit there, defeated. Looking at the void on the shelf where the mascarpone once lived. A void in the shelf. A void in my life.

That’s when I hear a voice.

“Mascarpone?”

I look up. He’s old. Italian. White hair, gentle eyes. Eyes that have seen things. The name tag reads Clemente.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He sighs.

“No more. Not till tomorrow.”

My chin trembles, my gut aches. I suppress the sob that is rising to the surface.

Clemente places a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Is for your wife?”

I nod.

“Italian?”

“Half.”

He nods. “That’s enough.”

He looks around. Checks his watch.

“Come. We close now.”

“What?”

“I have tubs at home. My mother, she come stay – she says: six tubs, always. In case of emergency.”

I follow him, dazed, back to my Mazda, which seems to audibly sigh when I start the engine again.

Clemente directs me to his house. It’s a short drive.

“Turn here…now slow….see the house with the pots? Yes, that one.”

We pull into the driveway. He opens the door without knocking. Inside, it’s warm — with smells of garlic and strong opinions.

We step inside.

From the kitchen, a voice rings out, sharp and commanding, not softened by age:

“Clemente? Sei tu?”

“Sì, Mamma. I bring… a man. He needs mascarpone.”

She appears, as if conjured by broth vapour — five feet, short and stout wrapped in a floral apron around her considerable girth. Her hair is set at an obtuse angle. Her spoon is large and frightening. She looks me up and down like a priest sizing up a confession.

“His wife?” she asks.

“Yes,” Clemente replies. “Tiramisu.”

She narrows her eyes, then gestures sharply.“Sit,” she says.

She puts a steaming bowl of something in front of me. Broth? Stew? It’s ancient, golden, impossible to define. I sip it.

Time stops.

It’s not just soup. It’s a benediction – unexpected and undeserved.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Eat more,” she says.

I do.

She disappears to the fridge and returns with three pristine tubs of mascarpone, placing them on the table like a holy offering.

I look at them. Unsure whether I should touch the sacred objects. Are they real?

“You take two. One stay here. For emergency,” she says.

I nod.

“Tell your wife…next time, she come here. I teach her the real tiramisu.”

I smile but I know she’ll never come – certainly not on my suggestion.

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m too full of…I’m just too full of emotion to utter a single word.

I drive home through the hollow silence of early morning. The streets are empty now. The city has folded into itself, and even the traffic lights blink without urgency. My hands rest lightly on the wheel. I’m no longer gripped by purpose. Just motion.

The two tubs of mascarpone sit quietly on the passenger seat, spotlit by my Mazda’s dashboard glow – two pale ghosts of a mission completed. I glance at them, and they remind me of my two daughters and the weight of it all hits me. Not the weight of the tubs, but the

weight of the night. The absurdity. The silence waiting at home.

I feel something tighten in my chest – then give. A real tear escapes, sliding down my cheek.

No drama. No sobbing. Just the simple, quiet grief of a man who finally understands what he already knew.The marriage is over.

And the frantic pursuit of this soft, ridiculous cheese – this desperate attempt to fulfill one more request, play one more role, do one more thing right – makes no sense anymore.

But I did it anyway. Maybe that’s love in its broken yet persistent form.

The road stretches on, silent and dark. I drive through it. I don’t know what comes next.

But I know I’m not going back for mascarpone again.